


The princess and the frog

by queenbellevue



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, I tried to capture pining, I'm Bad At Titles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 19:31:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3948946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenbellevue/pseuds/queenbellevue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Does it go without saying that you are unquestionably, irretrievably, utterly in love with your best friend?</p>
<p>Yes, of course it does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The princess and the frog

It’s boyfriend #5 this time, you’ve counted. Clarke goes through them like she goes through shirts, except she probably goes through shirts slower. What’s his name this time? Finn? Not like it matters anyway. You’ve seen this story over and over again, more than enough to know how it ends. With her pacing around your bedroom and ranting about how boys all suck and that she’ll never date again.

_He’s a jerk._

_He cheated on me with some girl._

_I guess I just don’t like him anymore._

You don’t tell Clarke she should’ve known better. It wouldn’t matter anyway. You both know it. So instead, you settle for consoling Clarke with her favourite ice cream, listening skills, whatever alcohol tickles your fancy, and Netflix. Inevitably, sometime during the night, Clarke will drunkenly say that she wishes you two would fall in love instead, because you would never break her heart, right?

You would laugh it off and say something about how she would never be able to handle you anyway.

You stamp down the words you really want to say, try not to notice how utterly beautiful Clarke is (you somehow never succeed), and tucks her into bed when she falls asleep halfway through the tub of Ben and Jerry’s and the second or third movie.

It goes without saying that you are unmistakably, irrevocably, completely in love with your best friend.

That’s how it’s always been, that’s how it always will be. Happy endings don’t exist. And even if they did…

No, that’s not how it works. You can’t have hope, because hope never leads to anything good. Clarke is the princess, but sometimes you wish she weren’t. The princess gets her happily ever after, but what does the frog get?

The next morning, you make pancakes. Clarke’s favourite. She once said that they were the best way to get over a breakup.

“I swear to God, Lexa, you make the best pancakes ever.”

You shrug. Of course you do. You’ve had plenty of practice.

It’s a Sunday, so there’s no class for either of you. Whoever said absence makes the heart grow fonder is either stupid or has never met Clarke. You see her every day, in the bedroom opposite yours, and your heart grows fonder anyway. You thought it would’ve been awesome to become roommates with your best friend. Go on cool college adventures together. Now you hate yourself for it. You wish you would’ve gotten your own damn apartment, so you don’t see or hear guys shuffling in and out of Clarke’s room every other night. You sometimes wonder how it is that she manages to juggle her heavy pre-med classes with such a hectic social calendar and excels at both, but then again, it’s Clarke. You’ve never met anyone quite so passionate and motivated before, it’s one of the things that you find most attractive about her.

“Ugh, it’s Finn.” Clarke glances at her buzzing phone as she takes another bite of breakfast. Your jaw clenches unconsciously, you can’t help it. His name leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. “He says he’s sorry and wants to meet up for coffee to apologize.”

“Well are you going to go?”

She shrugs. “I dunno. What do you think?”

You pause, because you want to choose your words carefully. “I think he’s not worth your time.”

Clarke bites her lip, thinking. You can’t help wondering if she knows exactly what goes through your mind during moments like this. They say the eyes are the window to the soul, and if that is truly the case, then Clarke probably knows all your secrets.

“You’re right. Screw him.”

You let go of a breath you hadn’t even known you were holding. Falling for Clarke was never a question. But to touch, to kiss, to speak…those are questions. They are doubts you can’t get over.

There’s nothing worse than a ruined friendship, you tell yourself over and over, and you force yourself to believe it. You don’t know what you’d do without Clarke in your life, you never want to find out, so you forbid yourself from saying certain things.

The good news is, nobody knows. Raven regularly comes by, drags you out of the apartment and does the whole girls night out thing with both of you (there’s always alcohol, but you manage to appoint yourself designated driver every time. You are not going to be one of those girls who drunkenly confess their love). Lincoln and his girlfriend Octavia sometimes set you up on dates, and you go (maybe if you date someone else, she’ll like you then) but nothing ever happens. You wish that one of them would be the princess instead of Clarke, but no such luck. Frogs don’t turn into princesses and princesses _most certainly_ do not turn into frogs.

* * *

 

Finals are finally over, and you’re celebrating by relaxing in your apartment at home on a Friday night, alone. You don’t want to see Clarke grind up against another guy tonight, hands messily feeling her up, and undeserving lips sloppily kissing her. The image makes you want to throw up, or punch a wall. It physically pains you to see her with someone else. _Anyone_ else. You know people say that all the time, and it’s a fucking cliché, but there’s no other way to describe it.

Clarke stumbles into your apartment at around 1 or 2 am. She’s unsurprisingly drunk, but there’s no random guy on her arm, which is a change.

It’s endearingly amusing watching her try to stand upright, until she almost trips over herself and you rush over to keep her from falling (if only there were some way for you to do the same for yourself).

“Clarke, seriously, we’ve been over this. Tequila is terrible, remember?” You jokingly scold her as she wraps her arms around your shoulders.

“You take such good care of me.” It comes out more slurry than anything, but you’ve become an expert at deciphering her drunken words. “You’re amazing.”

You laugh, dragging her to her room and sit her down onto the bed. “I know, how did you even survive before you met me?”

“I love you, you know that?”

That’s when you die. Well no, not really, but your heart does stop. You’ve heard Clarke say many, _many_ things while under the influence, some of which were nonsensical, some were even philosophical, but never something so…

You don’t dare finish that thought. You focus on getting her coat and shoes off properly instead.

“I mean it. I love you, Lexa.”

Her eyes are halfway closed, so you can’t read them. Even **_IF_** she knows and means what she’s saying, Clarke could be referring to how she loves you **_AS A FRIEND_**. God, you don’t know if you could take that. You **HATE** that phrase. “As a friend”. It’s like a consolation prize for the kid who finishes last and everyone feels sorry for.

“Good night, Clarke.” You turn to leave, because you might suffocate if you stay in this room for any longer.

She grabs your arm, and you don’t know where the hell she got the strength from, but you can’t get away from her grip.

“It’s rude not to tell someone you love them back, you know.”

Silence. You’re too scared to even turn back to face her. You don’t like risk. You are afraid.

“You do love me…right?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then say it.”

“I love you, Clarke.” More than words.

“Good.”

She lets go of your arm, and you don’t sleep for the rest of the night. She has no idea just how much you love her. _She_ is the lucky one.

You still don’t know what to say by the time Clarke wakes up. Your head is spinning. Turns out, you don’t have to say anything.

“Ugh,” she grunts, reaching for the fresh pot of coffee. “I have the worst hangover ever. I fucking hate tequila.”

You force a laugh. She doesn’t remember.

Of course.

Sometimes you daydream about confessing your love for Clarke. You wonder how you’d go about it. Maybe it happens completely out of the blue one day, and you just blurt it out. She’d stare at you for a few seconds before grabbing your coat and fusing your lips together. She’d murmur something about waiting ages for this to happen, between kisses.

Perhaps you’d go the more conventional route of the grand romantic gesture. Scavenger hunt that ultimately leads her to some moonlit rooftop, littered with rose petals, and you’d be standing there, eagerly waiting. You’d spend the whole evening stargazing, and she’d tell you all about the constellations in the sky. You’d look at her like she’s the one who put them there. Sometime during the night, you’d have a whole big speech that you planned out and rehearsed but you stumble over your words anyway, because honestly, you can’t concentrate on anything but her eyes.

When you’re feeling especially bold, you’d imagine that it’s _her_ who pushes _you_ against the wall and kisses you breathlessly. Because **_she_** can’t stand it anymore.

There are hundreds of scenarios like these, happy endings that all play out in your head when you’re distractedly looking at her as she ponders over which brand of butter to buy, during a particularly boring lecture, in your dreams. You have many dreams about Clarke.

* * *

 

Boyfriend #6 has come and gone by the time Spring break rolls around, you decide to go back home instead of Mexico to party with Clarke and Raven. You think that spending some time away from Clarke would be good for your mental and emotional health.

Anya gives you a big hug when you arrive, and it’s only then that you realize how much you’ve missed it here. College is fun, but there’s no place like home and all that. You literally haven’t even finished unpacking when Anya leans against your childhood bedroom door frame and asks about Clarke.

“She’s fine. Broke up with her boyfriend a couple days ago.” You try not to spit out the word ‘boyfriend’.

Anya sighs. “So I’m assuming that means you haven’t told her you loved her yet?”

You open your mouth to protest but she cuts you off.

“Don’t lie to me. I’ve known you since you were in diapers.”

“Happy endings don’t exist," you recite the mantra you tell yourself each time there's a pang in your chest, as if saying it enough times will make you somewhow snap out of it and stop wallowing in self-pity.

Anya scoffs. “First off, yes they _literally_ do. In like 99% of stories, there’s a happy ending. Secondly, if you don’t tell her, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life, and trust me when I say this, you won’t like the taste of regret.”

It's not until after dinner that you realize she’s right. You have to believe there are some risks worth taking. Maybe it’s time to write your own story.

You fish out your phone and dial Clarke’s number. She picks up after the second ring.

“Lexa?”

“Hi Clarke…” you don’t know what to say next. There are so many things you _want_ to tell her, but the words are all swirling around in your head and you don’t know which ones to voice aloud. “When you get back, can we talk?”

“Of course,” she replies instantly.

“Good. Okay, I’ll see you then.”

“Sounds good. I miss you.”

Your heart swells. “I miss you, too.”

You start to wonder if maybe happy endings do exist, after all. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
